Wednesday, Wednesdays
by fakescorpion
Summary: Part#4, spoilers for SPN 3x11. Sam wasn't the only one trapped in a time loop. Could Murphy stop Connor from martyring an innocent man, or would Murphy break before he learn the lesson that Gabriel was trying to teach?
1. Prologue: Martyring

_disclaimer: I don't own SPN, BDS, or any of their characters._

___Fourth in the **Chosen by Destiny **series, but can be read __separately_.

_Spoilers for SPN episode 3x11 Mystery Spot. Sam wasn't the only one trapped in a time loop by the archangel aka trickster. Could Murphy stop Connor from martyring an innocent man and save them both from the torturous guilt that followed, or would Murphy break before he learn the lesson that Gabriel was trying to teach? Rated T for anxiety/depression and typical MacManus language._

* * *

_**Wednesday, Wednesdays**_

**Prologue: Martyring**

Dean Winchester was bending over the opened trunk of his beloved Impala, putting a shotgun loaded with rock salt into his duffle bag and getting ready to leave town when he felt someone–who he assumed was Sam–approached from behind.

"Are you sure we should just let the trickster go?" He asked, doing the final confirmation to make sure his younger brother wouldn't all-of-a-sudden change his mind, but...

"Dean Winchester."

It was an uncomfortably familiar voice that answered him and as Dean pushed himself straight and turned around, he was confronted by a gun that was pointing right at his chest.

There was a tattooed _VERITAS_ on the naked left hand holding the gun and the blond Irishman was wearing dark shirt, blue jeans, and black woolen overcoat; and had a staunch look on a face that Dean remembered from almost two years ago. A face that Dean hadn't expected to see again.

"Connor." Dean greeted but his tone was strained and tense. "Okay, alright. I already know what you guys went around doing, but there's some misunderstanding between us and nobody wants this to end the wrong way, let's talk about it a sec."

"Then ya should also know tha I can't let a person like ya back on te street." The Irishman said. "m'sorry."

And Conner MacManus pulled the trigger.

_XXX_

Murphy heard the gunshot and blinked awake.

The first thing he noticed after he scanned the shitty motel room was that Connor was nowhere in sight. This hit him full force and before he knew it, he was scramming–or leaping, as he was trying to put on his jeans and grabbing his jacket to cover his bare chest at the same time–across the room to the door, worrying something had happened to his twin.

What he saw after he slammed open the door and lean over the white railing of the second floor both served to relief and dismay him.

Connor was standing over there, rigid as a statue, and lying before him–bleeding and gasping for his last breaths–on the pavement was their mark.

Dean Winchester.

Seeing Connor safe, Murphy let out the breath he hadn't realize he was holding.

But then there was Sam, hurrying to his brother's side. Disbelief and astonishment and shock and all those conflicted emotions painted his façade.

And for the first time, Murphy felt the slight pang of guilt for what they did.

"No...nononononono... Hey, hey, come on." Sam said, totally ignoring Connor–who was the man that took his brother's life–and hold Dean tightly in his arms. "Not today...not today...this isn't supposed to happen today. Come on."

Murphy slowly descended the stairs to take to his twin's side, watching as the younger man shut his eyes–but not in acceptance but grief–hard and opened them again.

"I'm supposed to wake up."

Murphy could barely make out Sam's whisper as the man let the reality of his elder brother's death sink in.

And then Sam glared up, in tears and pain and accusing.

"Why?" He demanded. "Why did you do that for?"

"We cleanse the world of evil men." Connor stated, making a sign of the cross. "May he rest in peace in Heaven."

"What are you talking about? Damnit!" Sam practically screamed. "Evil men? _Evil_ men? _We_ were the ones to clean the world of evil, to save people from the things that lurk in the dark; you, _you_ on the other hand, just kill and spill blood, in the name of God no less! How could you?"

"Shut up!" Murphy shouted, yanking the taller man by the collar forcing him to let go of his brother's stirless form and into a standing position. But Connor grabbed his wrist, nonverbally telling him to let go.

"Wha're ya sayin'?" Connor asked Sam, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

"I'm saying if you want to save people so much, go put a bullet in your head." Sam hissed, turning away. "Leave me alone!"

And that was the end of it.

Or so Murphy thought.

He never knew how little it took for one who started questioning his faith to lose his faith completely.

He never knew the incident was all it need for the guilt that had reside in Connor's heart since the very beginning to grow into a disaster that would eventually destroy them both.

He didn't know that they–arrogantly considering themselves to be the flaming swords of God–had already fallen prey to the infamous trickster and his poetic punishments.

And never could he begin to imagine that this was just the first of an endless string of Wednesdays he had to go through.

* * *

_The Winchesters wouldn't take much part in this story and Murphy would be the main character, so I apologize first to those who wanted to see Sam in action. And I have to apologize to both Dean and Connor cuze I'm going to kill them repeatedly._

_Thx for reading, please R&R. I would really appreciate it._


	2. We Alone should Understand

_disclaimer: I don't own SPN, BDS, or any of their characters._

_Murphy faced the consequences of Sam's words and this was how his first Wednesday ended–tragically._

* * *

_**Wednesday, Wednesdays**_

**We Alone should Understand**

Murphy was lying face-up on the bed across the room, staring at a long crack on the ceiling that might mean a leak should it rain. He didn't need to get up to know what Connor was doing.

He was looking out the window. Smoking again.

And Murphy couldn't help but noticed that he's been smoking a little more than usual lately, and even more so today. Maybe it was because Connor always react a little bit more to things that needed thinking–like faith and ethical issues–than Murphy ever did, as it was always Murphy when people talked about the straight-forward and hot-headed and sometimes more emotional of the MacManus twins.

Then again, maybe Connor just needed something to do with his hands.

It might have nothing to do with...

Murphy mentally smacked himself for even hoping for the slim possibility.

And as if to mock him, the low purring of an antique car's engine sounded from the outside, telling them the remaining of the two Winchester brothers had pulled out the parking lot, possibly leaving the town–but not his misery–behind.

The silence that followed was deafening.

And for half an hour, Murphy just lay there–unlike him sure, as he wasn't one that could stay in one place for long. But he just lay there, listening to sounds that never came. Sounds of deep breathing as Connor inhale smoke to destroy his lungs and exhale smoke to pollute the air. Sounds of paper scrapping together and mental clicking that meant Connor took out the pack of smoke and lit a new one.

But no, there were no sounds. Like Connor just put the cigarette on the windowsill and let it glow. No sounds, even though that cigarette would surely have burnt out by now. Not even the shuffle of clothing to signal that his twin had showed any sign of movement.

No nothing.

"Conn..."

Murphy called after what seemed like an eternity, fidgeted, though still not really moving as he lay. He just needed to break the silence or he would have thought that he had actually gone deaf. He needed to hear something, anything. Even the sound of his own voice would do.

No answer.

As expected.

"Connor." Murphy tried again, louder this time. "Ya wanna get lunch or somethin'?"

Still no answer.

"Fine." Murphy huffed, finally getting up and putting on his coat. It was already passed two and his stomach had long ago stopped growling its protests of missing two meals, but that didn't mean he had stopped feeling hungry. "I'll go get te fuckin' lunch."

It wasn't until Murphy opened the door did Connor made any sound that indicated that he was still alive and not just petrified by the window.

"Do ya think he's really innocen'?"

Murphy half turned but Connor was still staring out the window, staring at the place with a speck of red on the pavement below. He didn't need to ask to know who his twin was talking about.

"I dunno."

What else could he say?

_XXX_

Murphy couldn't drive.

It had nothing to do with having a license or not, but Murphy couldn't drive. It might have something to do with a car-accident-that-almost-happened when he was still a boy though he would never admitted it out loud, but every time he get behind the wheel he get a bit shaky.

If asked, they wouldn't tell you as much but hey, nobody's perfect and neither of them could do every household task there was. Murphy could cook. Connor could drive. Connor couldn't cook as he seemed to lack the very basic taste buds so Murphy always did the cooking, and Murphy couldn't drive but it never bothered him as Connor was always there to do the driving.

But not today.

And the nearest restaurant closed early thanks to the chaos caused by Connor's shooting in broad daylight. So Murphy ended up wasting more time and walking more blocks than necessary to get the 'lunch' and back.

He hadn't expected to find Connor loading the gun when he opened the door.

"Ya still wanna work today?" Murphy asked, not at all fooling around but with a concerning tone.

"I've been thinkin'bout his words."

"Wha?" Murphy dropped the food and almost tripped over himself hurrying to grab his twin by the shoulder. "Sam's?"

Connor didn't look at him. Connor _never_ didn't look at him.

"Ya can't be fuckin' kiddin' me." Murphy said with a hint of panic, thinking that maybe if he shook him hard enough he would start talking some sense. "Fuck! Ya can't be fuckin' serious. Look a' me!"

Connor did. But not long enough. Not nearly long enough.

"Wha te fuck? Ya can't be...can't be considerin' doin' wha he fuckin' told ya to! Wha kindda girl are ya?" Murphy shook him again, harder.

"Murphy." Connor stated, sounding croaky like he was in actual pain."We alone should understand."

"Wha should we understand? If ya dun start talkin' sense–"

"Whosoever shed man's blood by man, shall his blood be shed, fer in the image o' God–redeem man." Connor whispered.

"Wha..."

"I've shed the blood o' an innocent, Murphy."

"Ya dunno that!"

"But I do." Connor said quietly, pushing him away and holding out the loaded gun.

"Wha're ya doin'?" Murphy asked, now more frightened than mad.

"Ya're still a Saint." Connor answered, meaning for him to take the gun. "And I..."

"I can't."

"Ya can." Connor said firmly, practically forcing the gun into Murphy's hands before he fell onto his knees, kneeling. "Please do this fer me, Murph."

"I can't!" Murphy shouted, grabbing his twin by the arm. "Get up, Connor! Dun make me fuckin' make ya!"

"Murphy!" Connor raised his voice, compelling the gun to point at his forehead trying to kneel properly while he struggled with his other half. "Dun be fuckin' childish!"

"Who's being the fuckin' childish here!" Murphy shouted, trying to peel his fingers off the gun while the other forced him to hold steady.

"And shepherds we shall be..." Connor began with determination, ignoring the look of pure horror on Murphy's face.

"No, Conn–"

"For Thee, my Lord, for Thee."

_Please, Murph._ His eyes pleaded. _I don't want suicide added into the list of sins I've already committed._

"Power hath descended forth from Thy hand..."

"Connor, I can't–"

"That our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command."

Murphy's shoulders collapsed as he went limp with dread. It wasn't like fighting was of any use anymore and he could do nothing but said with a trembling voice the next line of their prayer with his beloved twin.

"We shall flow a river forth to Thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be."

Connor looked at him, with the familiar not-wavering glance.

"In nomine Patri..."

A soft click sounded as Murphy pulled the safety.

"...et Filii..."

Connor closed his eyes.

_I love you, Murph._

"...et Spiritus Sancti."

Hollow. Empty. A shot muffled by the silencer.

And Murphy was crying as Connor's lifeless body fell into his arms. Blood, flowing like a river from his pale forehead.

_I love you, too, Connor._

He wanted to say. But it was too late.

_I love you, too._

_XXX_

And he heard an echo. A gun sounded from far away...

...and Murphy blinked awake.

* * *

_I know SPN 3x11 Mystery Spot is a relatively funny episode to many people__–__including myself__–__what with all those hilarious ways for Dean to die. But, as you can probably see by now, I wrote this story in a more serious manner. And I hope you can also take it solemnly._

_Thx for reading, please R&R. I would really appreciate it._


	3. Own Words

_disclaimer: I don't own SPN, BDS, or any of their characters._

_Murphy this time had to face the consequences resulted from the words he himself carelessly let out._

* * *

_**Wednesday, Wednesdays**_

**Own Words**

Murphy blinked. Sat up. And blinked again.

What. the. Fuck?

"Connor!" Murphy yelled–practically screamed–and he would sure have died in shame should Connor turn a bleary eye at him then and chuck a pillow his way for bellowing for his name so fucking loud that it probably sounded all the way across town in the first rays of the morning like some five-year-old because of some silly nightmare.

But there was no answer. And after scanning every surface of the motel room and double-checked it, Murphy almost died from having a self-induced heart attack for not finding any sign of his twin.

Murphy had to take a few deep breaths to calm himself down and stop his legs from trembling so hard before he could stand. But he still had trouble doing up the zipper on his jeans and pulling on the shirt as his hands just. wouldn't. stop. shaking.

_Was that a dream? Oh, God. Please let it to be a dream._

He kept telling himself.

_Please let it to be a dream._

He felt the door handle vibrate under his touch. No, it was only his hands trembling.

_Please let it to be just another fucking nightmare._

Then the door swing open on its own record and Murphy jerked like he'd been snapped. But it was only Connor returning, returning to his side. And Murphy almost made a fool of himself the second time that day because he just felt like throwing his arms around his brother and cry in relief because the nightmare had been so _real_.

Almost.

But Murphy noticed Connor was holding his Baretta, and without the silencer.

"Conn..."

"Wha is't, Murph?" Connor raised an eyebrow questioningly. "Ya looked like ya've seen a ghost."

"Connor, what're ya doin' with te gun?"

Murphy prayed Connor would say it was for self-protect 'cause he might get mugged during his morning stroll to the nearby diner down the street. Murphy prayed Connor would look at him funny and asked what had gotten into him. Hell, Murphy would even take it if Connor just smirked and said it made him look cool like in the movies.

But no. Connor couldn't just swift his gaze away and didn't look at him. He couldn't! And it was _that_ tipped Murphy into insanity.

_No. Nonono._

"Ya...ya didn't..." Murphy stuttered, and without a second thought rushed pass Connor and out the door to see the thing that just _couldn't_ happen.

But there downstairs on the pavement beside the black antique car, right in front of his eyes was Sam. Head bow low and shoulders sacked, sobbing and in pieces, holding the inert form of his brother.

"No..." Murphy gripped the railing so hard his knuckles turned pale and he felt like he would collapse at the slightest touch. "No...this can't'ave happened...can't. Just can't. Just..."

"Murph?"

Murphy turned around and saw Connor standing by the doorway.

"Are ya alright?"

"I..." Murphy wanted to say something. He knew if he found his voice, he could still make it alright. He could, he believed he could. He hoped he could. He–

There were sounds of splintered wood.

Murphy jumped as he saw Connor slam his fist against the now-dented wooden frame. Knuckles bleeding. A smear of red cutting across _VERITAS_.

"Conn?"

"He really was innocent, wasn't he?"

"No!" Murphy shouted. Too fast to be truthful, too desperate to be genuine.

And it was the way Connor frowned and fell silent, the way he turned back into the room and headed for the window, the way he just started staring off into space with a piece of newly lit cigarette between his lips. That carved out a very real pit of fear in Murphy's chest.

"Connor."

"Ya dun'ave ta lie, Murphy." Connor turned and gave him one last look–and it wasn't angry but sad–before he turned around and shut himself off again. "Ya know I can always tell when ya do."

"I...I didn't..."

"I heard what ya said just now, ya know."

"Wha?"

"Yer words and tone...and te way ya fuckin' look a' me." Connor shook his head, exhaling smoke and shifting his gaze skyward. "Yer uncertain, Murph, scared even."

Murphy didn't have an answer to that. It was true. He was fucking frightened.

"Ya think I did wrong in killing Dean Winchester, didn't ya?" Connor continued.

And this time Murphy carefully bit his tongue and made sure his words were steady before he uttered a single-noted 'No'. But somehow it still sounded wobbly as it came out that not even he himself was convinced.

A sigh from Connor, like he was disappointed he was being lied to again. And Murphy could do nothing but drop himself into a chair by the door, hopelessly watching his twin turned into a mourning statue as minutes dragged into hours. Surreal. Like seeing a living nightmare crawling out from underneath the bed.

And he didn't dare going out to get anything for lunch. As he dreaded the out come if he repeated any moment in his very real dream.

"Conn..."

But it was still Murphy who first broke the silence. He couldn't stand the quiet like he was waiting for his own execution–or rather, Connor's.

He hated the metaphor.

And he hated that he received no answer.

"Ain't ya goin' ta bandage yer hand?" He continued, giving up on expecting a reply.

But surprisingly, Connor held up his left hand and thoughtfully inspected the small cut on the knuckle.

"Hmm...Murph?"

Connor raised his head after a lengthy consideration.

"Aye." Murphy answered, sitting up. "Wha're ya thinkin'?"

"Do ya believe in second chances?"

Murphy didn't know what to make of this, but nodded anyway. And he swore he saw Connor smiled a faraway smile–but didn't know what it meant then–as he finally got up and walked across the room to where they dropped their black duffle bags two days ago to get the bandages needed to treat his no-longer-bleeding hand.

But the second the bathroom door closed, Murphy knew something was _wrong_. They _never_ needed to close the fucking door! It's not like they ever cared about each other's privacy! And the next moment, Murphy was there, panicking and ramming his fists into the plank with paint felling off that just. _wouldn't_. budge.

"Connor!" Murphy screamed. "Open te fuckin' door! Connor! Connor!"

"Forgive me Lord, fer I have sinned."

Murphy could only vaguely make out his brother's prayer through all the mayhem he was causing.

"Fuck, Connor! Open te door!"

Clicking sounds. Metal against metal.

"Dun do anythin' shtupid!"

"Ya said it yerself, ya believe in second chances."

"Tha's not wha I fuckin' mean! Connor! Suicide's a sin!"

"It's not suicide, Murph. The Lord will decide whether or not I deserve ta live an' start over."

"Connor!"

One. Two. Three bullets were slide into the six chambers of the revolver. A fifty-fifty chance.

"Connor! Listen ta me, Connor!"

The barrel turned.

"Connor! Connor! Fuckin' Christ, just listen ta me, Connor! Conn–"

And Murphy's heart stopped as the gunshot sounded his horror.

Exactly how he got through the door he didn't remember–he must've used the chair as a provisional axe to tear it apart as there were pieces from an overturned broken chair all over the place–but he was cursing and shedding tears as he cradled his motionless twin on the splinter-filled bathroom floor.

"...oh God..."

_Why can't Thee spare his life?_

Murphy could taste the iron of blood on the tip of his tongue as he pressed his lips onto Connor's cold forehead.

_Why?_

_XXX_

And he thought he's been scarred so deeply he couldn't get the echo of gunfire out of his head...

...and Murphy blinked at the long crack on the ceiling right above his motel bed.

* * *

_I know people would probably think I'm twisted for torturing Murphy this way, but what could I said? I love Murph the most after all._

_Thx for reading, please R&R. I would really appreciate it._


	4. Snapped

_disclaimer: I don't own SPN, BDS, or any of their characters._

* * *

_**Wednesday, Wednesdays**_

**Snapped**

Murphy was panting when he sat up.

And he immediately noticed Connor's not in the room.

_What's fucking happening? What's fucking happening to me?_

Forget about the jeans, Murphy only wasted a fraction of an instant to grab his jacket before he crashed out the door–if not for the white railing he would sure to have fallen off the second floor–and saw Connor looking up at him from where he stood just as he holstered the gun.

Dean Winchester was still alive, bleeding and gasping for his last breaths in front of Connor on the pavement in the spread angle exactly the way Murphy remembered from what–_when_–supposed to be two days ago.

Then he saw Sam. The same look of disbelief and astonishment and shock, the same stride as he hopped the last couple of stairs–if only to prolong the last moment to be with his brother by a few seconds, the same way he shut his eyes and failed to will the reality to change.

The same accusing glare. "Why? Why did you do that for?"

The same words. The same fucking sentence.

And Murphy snapped.

He didn't remember descending the stairs, didn't remember shoving Connor aside.

And he didn't care he was slimmer in built and that Sam was about a foot taller, didn't care he was practically naked–save for his boxer and jacket–and that Sam might be armed under all those layers of clothes, didn't care Sam might–more probably than not–have years of formal combat training under his belt whilst his were mostly self-taught when wrestling with his twin. Truth be told, he didn't fucking care Sam just lost his own brother.

All he cared was Sam's fucking _words_ would hurt Connor enough to indirectly cost him his life. And Murphy was acting on emotion alone as he felt his fist connect with jaw bones.

"Shut up! Fuckin' shut up!" Murphy screamed, throwing his punches in a way that would really cause damage, really _hurt_.

"Get off!"

Murphy saw Sam shielding his face but still, he didn't show mercy.

"Murphy! Murph!" He didn't know when Connor got behind him, calling and trying in vain to pry him off. "Wha's te fuckin' wrong with ya? Murph!" He didn't care Connor had no idea why he just snapped and start hitting to cause pain. "Murph!"

Murphy didn't care. He was hurt–damaged–from living again and again and again the dream that was just too vivid for his liking, seeing the too vivid pictures of Connor went to pieces. He couldn't do it again. He just couldn't do it again.

Connor wasn't weak like that.

He refused to believe Connor was weak like that.

"Get off!"

Sam kicked him in the abdomen, but Murphy was too numb to even process the pain he received.

"Fuckin' stop it, Murphy!"

Connor violently tug at him from behind, but Murphy only hissed and tried yanking his jacket sleeve away as he was been forcefully dragged off.

"Lemme go, Connor!"

"We dun go around beatin' innocent people ta fuckin' pulp!"

"Fuck Connor! Dun talk like tha!" Murphy shouted–he didn't know what had gotten into him, he just knew he wanted to hurt and cause pain, because he was hurting so fucking much–and he seized the chance to throw Connor onto his back and the next moment had him pinned onto the ground, wrestling the gun still held in his hand away and chucking it across the pavement. "Dun ya fuckin' talk like tha!"

"Wha's te fuckin' wrong with ya? Murph! Fuck off!" Connor raised his voice as he elbowed his twin in the ribs.

"No! _No_! I can't do it again! I can't fuckin' do it again!" Murphy screamed, ignoring the pain and grabbing Connor. "Twice now, I've watched ya fuckin' die! I can't do it again!"

"Wha te fuck're ya talkin'bout?"

"Dun ya dare do this ta me Conn. Ya hear me? Dun ya fuckin' do this ta me again!"

"Murphy! I have no fuckin' idea wha're ya–"

But the sound of safety being pulled cut him off mid-sentence.

And Murphy turned and saw Connor's gun held steady in Sam's hand.

"Sam." Connor tried to say.

"You guys killed my brother."

"You wantta revenge?"

"I thought you wouldn't kill innocent."

And Murphy clenched his fists at Sam's words, so furious that he didn't care who had the gun and launched himself at the tall man again.

_–_

"Murphy!"

_XXX_

His head was throbbing where he'd been hit.

And he was alone, lying on the motel bed. And alive.

It was obvious now. The Winchesters–or Sam at least–had never killed people before, so couldn't start now. Couldn't pull the trigger, didn't have the guts to shoot him, even when threatened.

And Connor knew it now.

Knew how they were different from the other.

And Murphy knew it, too, because when he woke after six hours had passed with a lump on his head from where Sam smack him with the handle, he found a message left for him with only one word in his cell phone.

_Sorry._

And he knew he was too late.

He wanted to believe Connor wasn't weak like that. Wasn't.

But maybe it wasn't Connor who was weak, maybe it was him. Since it was Murphy who still refused to believe, who couldn't even tell the difference between the reality and a fucking dream.

* * *

_So here I am, slowly driving Murphy insane._

_And thx for reading, please R&R. I would really appreciate it._


	5. A Hundred Times Too Late

_disclaimer: I don't own SPN, BDS, or any of their characters._

* * *

_**Wednesday, Wednesdays**_

**A Hundred Times Too Late**

Murphy knew he was too late the moment he opened his eyes.

Like the past a hundred days. The one hundred and first day would be no different.

He couldn't wake up two minutes earlier to stop Connor from pulling the damn trigger. Couldn't stop the first fucking domino from falling. And everything after that, no matter how hard he tried to alter the events, always leaded to the same destination.

Murphy just lay there, staring at the crack on the ceiling that was getting all too familiar. He could see it in his mind's eye the reoccurring incident that was happening just outside on the pavement. Dean Winchester's gasp of final breaths, the wobble of Sam Winchester's last few steps to his dying brother's side, the set and forced neutral façade of Connor's. And Murphy could almost hear the ringing echo of the same exchange of words between them.

_Why? Why did you do that for?_

Murphy tried everything.

Emptying all their guns, but Connor just proved to him how useful–harmful–his stupid rope was. Hiding all their equipment didn't do much, either, as Connor was a man who could kill with a toilet seat, and an inch long mirror shard would be sufficient to be lethal.

There was always one too many way for Connor to commit suicide.

_We cleanse the world of evil men._

Murphy had also tried hiding the truth of Dean's innocence from Connor.

Tried pulling him away so he wouldn't hear what Sam got to say. Even tried telling him how Sam was lying.

But it never worked and Connor always knew.

_May he rest in peace in Heaven._

Murphy took out his own gun from under the pillow and slowly checked its ammo.

_What are you talking about? Damnit!_

Murphy was more than confused.

It had felt like a dream the first few times, and later he had thought that maybe it was God who was trying to give them a second–or a hundredth–chance to correct what they did wrong. But no, Murphy wasn't sure it was God by the end of the first month.

_Evil men? Evil men? We were the ones to clean the world of evil, to save people from the things that lurk in the dark; you, you on the other hand, just kill and spill blood, in the name of God no less! How could you?_

Murphy didn't think it was God now.

Because no matter how many Wednesdays past, he couldn't wake up two minutes earlier to prevent the inevitable. And he had to face it, and fail. One hundred times.

_Wha're ya sayin'?_

_I'm saying if you want to save people so much, go put a bullet in your head._

Connor didn't deserve to die, Murphy was sure of it. Or why else would he keep repeating the same day over and over? And it was a belief–a thin thread of sanity in this insane mess–to which Murphy always clench by the end of every Wednesday.

Only it wasn't enough anymore and all Murphy wanted was to wake up two minutes earlier.

There was a click as the cartridge slide back into place.

But apparently it was too much to ask and for the one hundred and first time, he had to wake only after the gun sounded. He had to wake only after it was too late.

_Step. Step. Connor was walking back up the stairs. With a heavy heart and one too many thought in mind._

Still, Murphy made no move to get up from the same position as when he woke up everyday the past three months. Like the lost soul he was.

Was it even possible for him to change the course of future? Was it even possible for the loop to stop?

Murphy put the gun to his head.

He couldn't take it anymore. And he was beginning to think that maybe he would be trapped in repetition forever.

_Click. The door key turned as Connor inserted it into the lock._

Murphy knew 'Ya still fuckin' asleep?' would be the first words out of his twin's mouth if found him still in bed. But he didn't want to throw a pillow at Connor and pull a casual joke pretending everything was okay anymore, because he _knew_ it was not.

Murphy was tired and depressed and hurt and he knew no amount of yelling and shaking would be enough for Connor to see that Murphy needed him to stay alive even if he murdered a whole town of innocent people. Murphy was lost and confused with nobody to turn to and it just happened to be one of those rare times that Connor wouldn't listen to him.

Murphy was broken and wanted to give up.

And the solid felt of the muzzle of the silencer was cold and somehow reassuring against his temple.

_Suicide's a sin._

The same arrange of the few words he had said–screamed even–again and again and so many times. The same arrange of the few words that Connor wouldn't listen.

_Suicide's a sin._

And Murphy didn't care as he pulled the safety.

Because those were the same words that to him had long, long ago lost its meaning. Like after so many killings, he no longer took note of how heavy the trigger was or how much life could weigh.

He didn't care anymore and he just wanted to wake up two minutes earlier to stop everything from happening...or don't wake up at all.

_Suicide's a sin._

And in the millisecond between the clicking of the firing pin from his own gun and having a bullet penetrating his head, Murphy found the irony that now he, too, had shed the blood of an innocent.

And the irony that he did what he had tried to prevent–and failed–Connor from doing for the past a hundred days.

* * *

_I planned to keep more of the actual episode in this story and since the 101st day was a bit different from the days before__–it was __the day Sam realized the trickster was the one having pancakes at the diner, a repeat that Dean didn't die__–I let Murphy change courses on this day as well and spared Connor's life._

_And thx for reading, please R&R. I would really appreciate it._


	6. To What Extent?

___disclaimer: I don't own SPN, BDS, or any of their characters._

* * *

_**Wednesday, Wednesdays**_

**To What Extent?**

Of course it wouldn't work.

But if Murphy was being totally truthful with himself, he had really thought that damning himself could spare the life of his brother...or take him along to burn in the fervent of Hellfire.

Fuck it.

If it wasn't God, then maybe it was the Devil.

Maybe it was a test. A test to see how far he was willing to go, how much he was willing to sacrifice...if it meant saving his brother.

_Do you possess the constitution, the depth of faith, to go as far as is needed__?_

Somehow, Da's word echoed in his head.

But it wasn't a matter of faith anymore; it was something that went deeper, that hurt more.

And suddenly, he saw the simple solution. The solution that meant yielding to the Devil and damning himself to an eternity in a fiery purgatory, and hopefully he could do it without dragging Connor with him.

If the Devil dared him to make sacrifices, then maybe he would. If it meant saving his brother. He would.

And the moment Murphy blinked the weariness out of his eyes and was again compelled to face the forever repeating Wednesday, he retrieved the gun from under the pillow and agile as a feline got out of bed, making across the room silently and easing open the door.

He didn't even need to aim.

And just on cue, the door two rooms away slammed open, revealing a near panicking Sam Winchester.

If Connor didn't know the truth.

And just like that, Murphy rained the ammunitions with a kind of reflex he groomed when killing all those who deserved from before. Only this time, it wasn't one who deserved.

If burying the truth meant the death of another innocent.

And Sam fell onto his knees–with bullets that grazed his arms and punctured his legs–before he turned his eyes to his assailant with so much shock and astonishment. But Murphy just slowly approached and watched with a glare cold as ice as the front of that man's stripped shirt and khaki jacket quickly became saturated.

"What...?"

"m'sorry, Sam."

Sam coughed blood preventing him from repeating the question, but his reproachful glare was demanding enough. And Murphy could see how much, how desperate, the man wanted to know–even if it was the very last thing–the reason he had to _die_.

"Every day–every fuckin' single day–for over three months. I have ta watch Connor kill himself over an' over again, because o' yer fuckin' words." Murphy almost snarled as he knelt beside the younger Winchester and held the muzzle to the dying man's forehead. "I've had enough."

And he had expected to find puzzlement or accusation or even rage in those chocolate brown pools. As all those iterated days.

But certainly not–

Understanding.

Pity.

And Murphy widened his eyes. With a tiny bit of doubt.

"Why're ya lookin' a' me like tha?"

There was only the sound of whizzes as sticky red substance continued to trek from pale lips down the neckline until Sam managed a weak 'did the...trickster' before he start coughing again. And this time it looked like he wouldn't be able to stop unless he emptied his lungs of air.

And then there was the sound of metal clicking against metal. From behind.

"Drop te gun."

Murphy wasn't stupid enough to turn his back on Sam–even if said Winchester had bullets in the gut and buried in his thighs to prevent him from doing anything funny–but he didn't need to confirm to know Connor had ascended the stairs and had a gun pointing at the back of his head.

"Drop te gun, Murphy." Connor said it again. "He doesn't deserve this."

And how much Murphy wanted to comply, but knowing he couldn't he instead uttered a simple 'No'.

"Drop te gun, now!" It was a warning now, a threat. "Murph! Wha's gotten inta ya?"

He almost chuckled at it. Murphy was half a step short of hysteria after all.

"Ya wouldn't understand."

Murphy whispered sadly before he pulled the trigger, blowing apart half of Sam Winchester's skull and–

And he was getting up from where he had fallen, temple throbbing where Connor had rammed the gun-handle into his head, and glaring without regret at the form of his brother who was bending over the hopeless sanguinary mess that had once marked a great man.

But when Connor turned around, Murphy was confronted with a matching glare that screamed disappointment and hesitation and loss and something else that he couldn't quite decipher at time.

Then all so suddenly and without another word of explanation, Connor made a quick trip to their room and back with their duffle bags and other belongings and–before Murphy could start processing what had happened–had half the stuffs dumped onto the younger twin's lap.

"Te fuck?"

Murphy asked, bewildered, but Connor didn't meet his gaze as he ignored the question and descended the stairs.

"Connor!" Murphy called after, leaping up and made to grab the other man. But–

"Get out o' m'sight."

"Wha...?"

"Ya heard me." Connor said and when the blond twin finally turned around to look at his younger half, Murphy was shocked to find the depth of pain and disappointment behind those too blue eyes. "Get out o' m'sight."

And Murphy thought he felt the world slanted sideways.

"Whaddya mean by–"

"Fuckin' Christ, Murphy!" Connor yanked himself free, this time his voice was tainted with something else. "Ya didn't see te look on yer face jus' now! I's..."

Anger.

And it was obvious to Murphy now.

"Next time I see ya, I have ta fuckin' kill ya. Ya know tha?"

It was the price he had to pay for deceiving his brother.

"Connor..."

"Dun! Just...dun."

And that was the end of it, with Connor–broken-hearted and disappointed and burying his face in his hand trying to will the nightmare of his brother mercilessly killing an innocent to fad–leaving the stunned Murphy behind and walking away.

_XXX_

He didn't know how long he'd been just standing there, alone on the pavement in the suffocating morning air–almost naked with all his belongings scattered at his feet–staring off into the space where Connor was supposed to be, staring off in the direction that Connor had _left_.

Connor.

Left.

Then Murphy heard someone making tsking noises from somewhere up the stairs. And he turned and saw, standing over the dilapidated form of Sam Winchester and inspecting the remains was a man–not tall with light blond hair and seeming playful features–chewing a bar of chocolate.

And when the man dared to look up and _smirk_, Murphy just went berserk and pulled out the revolver he knew was still filled from his bag and–

Jammed. Jammed. Jammed. Jammed. Jammed. _Jammed_.

Murphy gaped.

It wasn't possible.

But the reality was right there, in front of him, mocking him.

"Sorry, can't have that." The shorter man winked. And then, just like that, he was _gone_ with a snap of his fingers.

Leaving Murphy shaken and dumbstruck, rooted on the spot. The reality as he knew it completely shattered in that instant and distorted into something akin to a nightmare he had as a kid. But Ma wouldn't be able to assure him how monsters weren't real this time; and Connor wasn't beside him to make fun of his cowardice for something so surreal.

And before he finally fell onto his knees Murphy thought he heard Sam Winchester's whispered last word repeatedly sounded in his ears, like a recorder forever stuck on replay.

Trickster.

Trickster.

Trickster.

* * *

_Like I said, I planned on keeping more of the actual episode in this story, so__ Murphy had to go through two parts as well before it really ended. __And I hope what Murphy turned into within four months wouldn't cause too much distress, though it sure did to me (but what could I say? Sam didn't cope too well either)._

_Thx for reading, please R&R. I would really appreciate it._


	7. Dead Inside

_disclaimer: I don't own SPN, BDS, or any of their characters._

_And please don't hate me for what Murphy turned out to be after Connor left, I know he was a good man in heart._

* * *

_**Wednesday, Wednesdays**_

**Dead Inside**

"Forgive me, Father, fer I have sinned."

Murphy whispered through the small gauze-netted screen to the other booth of the confessional.

"It's been four months since m'last confession."

Murphy skillfully screwed the silencer into place like one who'd done it a thousand times–which he probably had–and his gloved hands absent-mindedly fiddled with the bullet-filled cartridge. The penance wasn't going to mean anything but still, he wanted to do it properly as he felt the weight of the rosary around his neck. Even if he no longer dared calling himself a Catholic.

"I've become a person I loathed."

He went on but stopped for a short paused there, debating over the best way to voice his current circumstances, and knew the man on the other side was waiting for him to elaborate.

"I've killed men."

Though truth be told, he didn't wish God to have mercy on his soul. He didn't _want_ God to have mercy on his soul.

What he wanted was a restart.

And if not, then revenge rather than redemption.

"Four months ago, I did it in hope o' savin' more."

Because four months ago he lost his brother.

"An' now, I did it fer te slim chance o' gettin' back wha I've lost."

Murphy knew what he said didn't make much sense to anyone other than himself, but still he said it as he put his gun back together.

"Forgive me, Father, fer I'm a bad man."

Murphy wondered why the Baretta didn't feel any heavier and why he was so calm at what he was about to do next.

"Forgive me, Father, fer I'm 'bout ta sin."

And Murphy closed his eyes and crossed himself after emptying his gun through the thin wooden plank that separated the two compartments before Douglas McKinney had any chance to comprehend what had just been said.

"Amen."

With a silent prayer that sounded more sarcastic than sincere–even though he tried otherwise–Murphy unfolded a piece of paper he took from his coat pocket that contained two images and crossed out the one on the top, the one that matched the face of his victim.

Four months ago he killed for others, for the protection of the innocents.

As it was too late at night that it would take at least another four or five hours for the body to be found and by then he would be long gone, Murphy put away his rosary and lit a smoke with the steel lighter after walking out the chapel like nothing had happened.

But four months ago he lost his brother.

Trickster.

That was what Sam Winchester called that thing.

And with the lore he gathered–stolen–from the Winchester brothers' computer and their father's journal, he now had connections with a few supernatural-hunters and had learned that tricksters were some sort of semi-gods that enjoy playing deadly pranks on people they dislike and could be slay with a stake dipped in the blood of one of their victims.

But it wasn't enough. Because the trickster he hunted could move from place to place with mere thoughts and stay at one location for as short as a few days to as long as a couple of years. And as he wasn't raised a hunter and couldn't track preys like one, Murphy had to go from a different approach to locate the game. Through a mean that he's more familiar with.

So now he killed for information. Information that could not be acquired through authorities, information that no amount of money could buy, information that could only be reached through the work of mafias or other underground organizations. The information that might–_only_ might–pinpoint the whereabouts of the culprit that's responsible for the majority of the fucking life he lead now.

He sold his soul for that.

And this was him now, dead inside. And an assassin–hitman–for any who claimed to have the information he needed.

Murphy inhaled, ruining his lungs.

One more job. And maybe he could finally reach the end of the road.

Exhaled, polluting the air.

Or _maybe_ he was just waiting–hoping–to turn around and see Connor again...and confront the gun that more-probable-than-not held to his back.

–

But it never happened.

So Murphy picked up his cell and dialed a number he hadn't touched in a long time as he stepped out the cigarette he dropped dying on the concrete floor. And all too soon, a voice he remembered from somewhat seemed like a lifetime ago filled his ears.

"Aye, hey. I's Murphy." He answered the enthusiastic greetings on the other side, but Murphy himself sounded colder than intended. "Been a long time an' since I'm in Boston right now I thought o' droppin' by. McGinty's sounds good, when're ya free? Okay, see ya tomorrow night then."

Leaning against the light pole that's radiating a pale glow onto the street and phone still in hand, he looked at the image underneath that of the priest and marked his last target.

The image of his once-upon friend.

"Bye, Smecker."

_XXX_

Murphy had thought the familiar sight of the old pub might help him regain the felt of what's right and what's wrong, to show that he could still feel, could still weep and laugh, could still hesitate and had doubts. To show that he's among the living.

It didn't.

"M-m-murphy, g-g-good ta see ya!" Doc greeted when he saw the darker haired twin entering the pub and turned to the side to curse his infamous 'Fuck! Ass!' loudly.

Murphy didn't return the smile, but he was glad the older man cleared the pub of other people for his sake as he drain the pint of Guinness that was placed on the polished counter.

But then a question caught him by surprise.

"W-w-where's Connor?"

Murphy didn't trust himself to speak–or even look up for that matter–as he glared at the knuckles of his glass-holding left hand turn pale. Connor didn't tell them anything, but it didn't make him feel better if not worse.

And then there's the sound of door opening.

"Sorry we're a bit late, but Greenly here–"

But Smecker didn't get to say anything more. And the last thing he noticed was that there's a long burnt scar forever smearing the tattooed _AEQUITAS_ on the right hand of his assailant that was holding the pistol that claimed his life.

When murdering became so easy, one might start questioning the true definition of humanity. And Murphy really thought he was pushing the limits since when he then pulled the trigger at Greenly–who just happened to be here, at the wrong time–the first thing he thought of was 'one less witness' and not the loss of another man and friend.

A glass shattered then when Doc dropped a bottle of what could be whisky onto the floor. But Murphy just pointed the gun in warning as he drew out his phone and sent out the evident picture of his assassination before dialing.

What had he become?

He didn't know anymore. And sadly, neither did he care.

"I've done it." Murphy said after the call was answered. "Now give me te fuckin' coordinates."

There was more than one voice on the other side, buzzing like flies and all talking together like some chatty women. Then someone spoke over the noises and said something about 'mistakes' and the likes, but they were all just _excuses_ that he didn't want to hear.

"Givet ta me, now!" Murphy bellowed. "I've killed m'friends fer that! An' if ya lied ta me I swear ta fuckin' God I'm gunnin' fer yer sorry arse next! Ya hear me? Ya–"

Then the phone went static.

And before Murphy figured out what had happened to his cell, a sarcastic deride sounded from behind the counter.

"You've fully turned yourself into a homicidal psychopath you know that?"

Murphy was startled to turn and saw the image of Doc half-thawed before converting into that of a cheerful smirking man, the supernatural being he'd been hunting for four months. And wasting no more seconds, the presenting twin made a grab for his duffle bag, but a snap of fingers from the blond and the seat beside him went empty.

"Sorry, chit. We don't want the stake you hide in there to hurt anyone, do we?"

Murphy clenched his fists so hard he thought he might bleed.

"Return m'brother."

He demanded, though it sounded weak as he was next to unarmed even with the gun in his hand.

"And who do you mean by that? Connor?" The god-like being asked, just short of mocking, as he leaned against the counter and conjured a sweet snack out of thin air. "I didn't force him away. _You_ did."

"Please, jus'..." Murphy whispered. "Jus' take me back ta te day it all started. Please, just let me wake up two minutes earlier on tha Wednesday."

"Give me one good reason why I should."

"He's m'brother! M'twin!"

"And look at yourself! When it comes down to a choice between your brother and faith, see how fast you abandon the latter?" The trickster windmilled the candy bar in an overly dramatic way. "And don't bother lying to yourself 'cause I can see right through it."

"See through wha!" Murphy growled.

"Connor have faith in God but no, not you." The shorter man threw his head back like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "_You_ only had faith in your brother."

"Bullshit!"

"Is it?" The trickster challenged, holding up his hands wide and indicated at whatever that's around. "Then see what happens to you when he's gone? And he's not even _dead_, Murphy-boy."

Murphy's shoulders collapsed in defeat at those words.

"We're twins, we're supposed ta be together."

"So if you want to do what you got to do, then you have to stop letting your twin be the only leash around your neck." The trickster said, backing off. "Or when the time comes that you two parted–and I assure you it will whether it was my doing or not–this is what life is gonna be like and you'll be earning yourself the one-way ticket downstairs."

"Please...fuck just..." Murphy stuttered–begged–and he wondered how a voice so broken could belong to him. "I can't."

The trickster shook his head and let out a breath of disappointment.

"Can't believe it. Both you and Sam must have brains made out of stones and nothing else." He looked at the man that was at the edge of total breakdown in front of him. "Okay fine, I'm out of it."

"Wha...?"

The being just gave Murphy a smile with maybe a bit of sadness before snapping his fingers.

* * *

_A/N:_

_Douglas McKinney was the priest murdered in the very beginning of BDSII: All Saints Day, because I figured he was a person the mafias wanted to get rid of. And since McKinney was destined to die at night in a church through the hands of a contract killer, I forced him to die four years ahead of schedule in this alternate universe that Murphy lived through._

_Same reason went to Detective Greenly as he died a few weeks after the priest in the hands of the same assassin, a result from 'wrong place, wrong time'. However in this universe, the time between the two assaults shortened to less than 24 hours and of course the actual time of death was, as well, ahead of schedule by four years._

–

_Thx for reading, please R&R. I would really appreciate it._


	8. Epilogue: Last Haven in the Storm

_disclaimer: I don't own SPN, BDS, or any of their characters._

* * *

_**Wednesday, Wednesdays**_

**Epilogue: Last Haven in the Storm**

Murphy blinked and blinked. He was staring at _that_ particular crack again.

"Hey, Murph, ya awake?"

And it was the voice he missed so much, the voice of his twin.

"I saw te Winchesters' car in te lot, get up an' we can go gank tha–"

But Murphy wasn't listening. And before neither of them knew it, the darker twin had flung himself into Connor and held him in a tight embrace with so much joy and relief and a little fear if just to make sure he hadn't finally gone over the edge and started hallucinating.

"Wha, Murph?" The older twin steadied himself before voicing concern. "Ya okay?"

Murphy didn't respond, only buried his face into the crook of his brother's neck and held all the tighter. And it was then did he notice that where the inked _AEQUITAS _on his right forefinger had been an illegible burnt smudge–an accusation of his crimes every time he remove his leather glove–what seemed like a few minutes ago, every letter were now clear and proud.

And tears started to blur Murphy's vision as he thanked the mercy of God.

"I love ya, Conn."

He said softly. Sincerely.

And the puzzled Connor could _not_ begin to describe how awkward it was before he uncertainly patted his younger half's bare back. "Ya okay?"

"Aye." Murphy whispered, wiping the wet from the corner of his eyes before letting go. "Jus' been a long night."

A long, long night.

_XXX_

Gabriel was standing across the street, looking–but more of a knowing than really seeing–as the two younger brothers, two rooms apart, clung to their respective elders like drowning men at driftwood. And when they loosen their grips, they had a similar shade in their eyes of brown and blue that–if paid heed to look–told the tale that said they were not the same men from two days...and seven months ago.

A little more wary, a little more desperate. And maybe, a little wiser.

And as the archangel turned to leave, he had a nagging feeling at the back of his mind that he might have just offered a hand at shaping the future vessels of four of his brothers.

But only time and Father could tell.

_**~~fin~~**_

* * *

_I know some of you could read it as a pre-slash, but just so you know, it wasn't my intention as it would seem odd in the following series__. __And I know the end feels kind of like a cliff-hanger what with the angel-vessel thing and maybe you want to kill me for it, but the main reason I start writing the series is because I happened to stumble on two angels one day that, to me, just screamed Connor and Murphy._

_Anyway, hope this depressing story didn't cause you too much discomfort and that you enjoy it. Finally, thx to all for reading and staying with me for so long. And I would really appreciate it if you could kindly leave your review for it's the best feedback we writers could possibly receive for writing and sharing._


End file.
